


toying somewhere between love and abuse

by begforyourmercy



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armitage Hux is a Jerk, Ben Solo Has Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Fighting Kink, Hux is unstable and Ben is kinda into it, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Modern Era, Unhealthy Relationships, Young Love, it's not their fault but it absolutely is, these idiots get in a bar fight, unstable Armitage Hux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23490241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/begforyourmercy/pseuds/begforyourmercy
Summary: "That new boyfriend of yours is going to get you into trouble one day," his mother’s voice echoes back at him. Oh, how wrong he’d thought that was. How stupid, how judgmental.*a little drabble written for a prompt night with my friends: wherein Hux is batshit and unstable, and Ben is disturbed but kind of into the insanity.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Kudos: 33





	toying somewhere between love and abuse

“Got a light?”

If anyone had asked Ben Solo where he thought he’d be tonight - and no one had asked, for the record, because no one ever seemed to have the time - he would never have said here. The night was meant for roaming, but perhaps he’d roamed too far south tonight: a shitty little club on the wrong side of the tracks, a place that looked good only if you closed your eyes. It’s not like it was his idea; it’s not like it was his fault, even. He couldn’t have ever guessed as to what the night would morph into. But he still went, and for that, he could blame no one else.

If anyone had asked, he sure as hell wouldn’t have said he’d be _arrested_ \- back shoved against a crumbling brick wall, handcuffed and bleeding, along with everyone else in the bar. 

_That new boyfriend of yours is going to get you into trouble one day,_ his mother’s voice echoes back at him. Oh, how wrong he’d thought that was. How stupid, how judgmental. 

Ben looks to his right, at the so-called boyfriend in question. Hux is sallow but smiling in the low gas lamp lights of the grungy street. Amongst a sea of stragglers clad in ragged, days-old clothes, with skin covered in a thin layer of grime and sweat, he gleams bright and clean and well-dressed. A dark spray of Ben’s blood clings to his razor-sharp cheekbone; the neatness of his gelled hair has fallen, but even disheveled, the dangling strands make him look venomous. From in between his crooked-grin lips, a cigarette dangles precariously. “Well?” he says; his head cocks, one delicate eyebrow arching high in anticipation. 

He holds up his hands; even in the darkness, the metal cuffs glint: sharp and stark and obvious. “Not that I can reach,” he laments, tugging at the unforgiving bind to no avail. 

Hux hums in disappointment; lets the cigarette fall glumly into his lap. “Bummer,” he mumbles, pointed boots scraping against the ground as he shifts in place. He kicks a rock, sends it flying across the street. “And here, I’d hoped you’d at least be good for something.” 

“I’m sorry, who threw a glass at a guy’s fucking head tonight?” 

“He looked at me funny,” Hux says in defense, shrugging in lip-curling indifference. “And you should be thankful, Solo - at least I’m not the one who pulled the fucking gun.”

Gritting his teeth, Ben is freshly reminded of the weeping graze on his arm; the shot was meant for Hux’s head, and had he shoved him out of the way a single second later, would have hit its mark spot on. “Yeah well, next time maybe have a gun to pull. I’m not dragging you out of the line of fire like that again, Hux. If your dumb ass wants to start a massive bar fight, try not being too weak to finish - ” 

“ _I’m not weak_ ,” Hux spits at him, suddenly seething through clenched teeth. “I’m just patient.”

Ben rolls his eyes, stifles an uneasy sigh. “Always the same story with you,” he mutters to himself. His eyes anxiously track the line ahead of him - the erratic flash of the police officers’ flashlights, landing on new heads and arms and legs each second, coming closer and closer as they interrogate every person who was in the bar. “I wish they’d hurry this shit up,” he finds himself muttering, teeth beginning to gnaw at the inside of his cheek for any sense of distraction. 

Hux smirks again, shakes his head; a breathy cough of a laugh crawls up from deep in his chest. “You’ve never been arrested before, have you?” he asks, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “The pigs like to take their sweet time, darling.”  
  


“I’ve been cuffed before, if that counts.”

“It doesn’t,” Hux quips. 

“It still shouldn’t take this long.” Ben brings his cuffed hands to his face, scrubbing at his tired eyes. “What’s our alibi gonna be this time, huh? Fucking in the bathroom - ”

Hux cuts him short with a scoff. “Oh, come off it, Ben. I’m not _that_ sleazy.”

“Well, I need _something_ to say when I get home - ” 

A hard thump on his shoulder cuts him off. “We’re not going _home_ tonight, you idiot.” Hux’s gaze digs into his soul, sharp and unyielding, as if this all should have been obvious from the start. “No one’s going home, don’t you see that? We’re all cuffed - that means we’re all getting fucking _booked_.”

In a series of stuttering heartbeats, this blackened reality starts to set in. _Booked…_ booked means a whole lot more than just the word. Booked means more than just one night of sitting in an overcrowded cell reeking of booze and body odor. Booked means a record, and charges, and a trial. It means a lawyer mother who will most certainly wash her hands of him as soon as she sees his name on the warrant list. 

“I’ve been _cuffed_ before,” Ben says again, slower this time and with a pointed stare, “and I’ve _slipped_ cuffs before.”

Hux raises that eyebrow again: disbelieving, doubting, wrapped up in lukewarm amusement. He flicks his eyes down to his own cuffs, then to Ben’s. His expression says _go on_. “You want to run for it,” he deadpans. “That’s your plan?”

The line begins to get rowdy. Somewhere ahead, someone lets out an infuriated shout; the crowd echoes it, a roaring chaos made out of the damp, dark, tunnel-like alleyway. The clinks and clanks of rattling cuffs, the blinding intermittence of police lights. It’s maddening; it’s rage-inducing, this lowest-of-the-low scene out of a poorly written punk movie. It’s _degrading_. And it’s something that he absolutely won’t put up with any longer. 

“Yeah, that’s my plan,” Ben affirms. 

“Shit, you’re really serious.” Hux grins, devilish. “I’ve turned you into a monster.”

“Yeah, you have, you asshole. Now help me out, watch those lights.”

Ducking his head low, Ben begins to examine the mechanics of the cuffs. They’re cheap and simple, and if he could get away with it without being seen, he’d tuck the connecting chain under his boot and kick his way through them. But there are too many eyes sweeping around; too many opportunities to get booked for assault _and_ resisting arrest. “Fuck,” he cusses, “I could probably spring the lock if I had something to jam in there. You don’t have a toothpick, do you? Or a paper clip?”

“No.” Hux smirks again. He raises his cuffed hands from his lap, and uncurls his fingers to reveal a Bic torn to pieces in his palm. He dumps one handful of plastic and metal bits on the ground in front of him; in the other, he holds up the tiny inner nozzle, perfectly sized. “But I’ve got a light.”

\----

Ben can’t believe they made it. 

Early morning light streams in through paper-thin curtains. They’re in another shitty place, in another shitty part of town - a run down motel this time, luckily open in the middle of the night and more than happy to not ask any questions or take names. Neither of them slept; Ben, too busy looking out the window as if death itself was hiding beyond the door, and Hux, too wrapped up in the adrenaline-fueled euphoria of evading capture to settle down. 

He can’t stop seeing it over and over again in his head. The moment the cuffs sprang free, a blurry burst of movement out of inaction. The white-hot panic as frantic gunshots whizzed past his head. The tight burn of his chest, the pounding of his feet on pavement as he runs, runs, _runs_ for his life. Above it all, the wild cackle of Hux’s laugh as he ran beside him: batshit crazy but effortlessly and enviously free. 

Ben feels gentle hands comb up his back, turning him away from the world outside for a thousandth time. “They’ll still be looking for us now,” Hux purrs, drawing him in close by the lapels on his leather jacket. With slow footsteps, he inches them both backward until they meet the bed, and he sinks down onto it, looking up and Ben with wide, enamored eyes. “Combing the streets, sounding the alarms. You’ve made yourself a wanted man, Solo.”

Ben doesn’t want to think about it. About what this means for the days to come, about facing his family again - or not facing them ever again as consequence. All he’s seeing are pale green eyes; all he’s feeling is the sweet heat of Hux’s breath on his skin. His knee pushes Hux’s legs apart with ease, and he looms forward, aching to flatten him out on this bed until they both forget everything outside this room even exists. “Don’t act innocent, sweetheart,” he croons, one hand crawling its way up Hux’s chest, finding a perfect fit around his delicate throat. “You made me this way, after all.”

Hux’s resounding grin sets his very blood on fire. “You’re damn right,” he whispers, “now shut up and kiss me.”

Ben leans in close to marry their lips together, but at the very last millimeter, he stops. His gut is a roiling riot of emotion; happiness and desire and anger and shame, mixing together into a deadly concoction that makes him sicker and sicker with each passing second. How has his life come to this, he wonders? How can his descent be embodied in this, this hand around a throat, this almost-offering of endearment? This road Hux has led him down is exhilarating, a thrill-ride at every mile; but the night at the bar has not been his deep-dive, his full descent into a life of bloodthirstiness without consenting to it first. No, _this_ is the moment he can never come back from: this fatal meeting of mouths seals his fate, cements his place in the blackness. This is a leaving behind of the white, the grey, and all shades of morality in between. 

He kisses him anyway.


End file.
